


The Only Thing a Gambler Needs

by Rose_of_Pollux



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:01:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24495403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose_of_Pollux/pseuds/Rose_of_Pollux
Summary: Napoleon has had a rather rough escape; thankfully, Illya is there.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683037
Comments: 4
Kudos: 69





	The Only Thing a Gambler Needs

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the “Painful wound-cleaning” prompt at badthingshappenbingo.

Napoleon had seen better days. A simple mission had gone awry; he hadn’t even been carrying anything remotely valuable to THRUSH. No, they just happened to recognize him as the head of Section II, and it had all gone downhill from there.

Dragged to a satrap and questioned—bruised, beaten, and thrown around a cell—Napoleon saw only one chance for an escape, and he took it, jumping out a first-floor plate-glass window as he was being taken to a lab for a truth serum injection.

It was a successful escape, but a painful one, for now Napoleon had cuts in addition to his bruises and headache. He knew he had to make it to civilization to relay a call to U.N.C.L.E. (his communicator had been confiscated), but following the road would mean an easy way for THRUSH to track him down and recapture him.

That left the ravine as his only option.

But being so injured and having been deprived of food and sleep, Napoleon had reached the limit of his endurance; he sought shelter under some shrubbery to attempt to rest. The throbbing pain in his head advised him that he shouldn’t sleep in the event he had a concussion. But that was easier said than done when his body was practically screaming at him to do nothing but sleep.

Still, he struggled to remain awake—tearing off strips of his already-torn suit to patch up his wounds, but he soon ran out of energy for even that. He resolved to just rest his eyes for a brief moment…

“Oh, no, you don’t,” a voice ordered.

At last, a smile managed its way onto Napoleon’s face.

“Illya…?” he asked. “How…?”

“We found the satrap and saw that you had escaped; I followed the general direction you had gone and put myself in your shoes as to where exactly you would have gone—and my pace was not impeded by injuries.”

“Ah…” Napoleon said. He now was ready to give in to his battered body’s demands for rest, knowing that Illya was here…

He let out an involuntary hiss of pain as something on his right temple stung intensely. His eyes shot open and he looked up to see Illya pressing a cloth to his temple in one hand, a bottle of antiseptic in the other. Illya pulled the cloth away after a moment, frowning as it came away quite red with blood, and reapplied another, clean cloth and resumed treating the wound before placing a bandage upon it.

Napoleon now closed his eyes again, but not a moment had passed before a new cloth, fresh with stinging antiseptic, was applied to a gash on his arm. He winced again, but he soon realized that he was too tired even to feel the stinging as Illya continued.

“Napoleon?”

Napoleon didn’t respond; there was a warm, welcoming blanket of unconsciousness wrapping around him, everything growing so quiet…

…Except for that voice singing…

“ _There is a house in New Orleans_ …”

Napoleon’s eyes snapped open again, and he glanced up at his partner, who was still tending to his cuts and scrapes.

“ _Why_ are you singing?” Napoleon asked, and then he hissed again as Illya put a fresh antiseptic-soaked cloth on a new gash.

“Because I cannot let you sleep until we are sure you do not have a concussion,” Illya replied, matter-of-factly.

“…But an English pop song? You, of all people…?”

Through the haze, he saw a smile flicker across Illya’s face.

“It worked, didn’t it, Blockhead?”

Napoleon arched an eyebrow, but conceded with a nod; he then winced as Illya moved his battered body up so that he was slumped against the Russian.

“You don’t really think that after all I went through to find you alive, I will risk letting you slip away now?” he chided, as he continued to patch him up. “No.”

Napoleon managed a smile through the pain.

“And I love you, too, Illya.”

“Then stay awake and listen to my singing.”

Napoleon felt Illya’s arm around him tighten as he continued the song; though Illya’s voice never wavered, the desperation with which he held on told Napoleon all he needed to know about how agonizing it must have been for Illya not to know Napoleon’s fate.

And so, for his partner, Napoleon fought the urge to let sleep claim him; he stayed awake until they had been extracted and an agent Medical had examined him—and had determined that he had not, in fact, sustained a concussion.

He was released to Illya’s custody to see to his wounds at the nearest safehouse, where, as he found himself in a real bed for the first time in days, Napoleon finally stopped resisting sleep as Illya finished tending to his wounds, still singing, but much more quietly now.

 _Well_ , he silently transmitted to his partner as he once again kept an arm around him in a protective grip. _This poor boy was spared from ruin today. Thanks, Tovarisch; I owe you one_.

And at last, he fell into a much-needed sleep as his partner remained ever watchful.


End file.
